Nosebleed
by DrThorneycroftHuxtable
Summary: John is one of those people who easily get nosebleeds, and when he does, it's like Niagara Falls all down his front. Sherlock, of course, doesn't know this detail about his blogger and sees John asleep having had a nosebleed and freaks out. Slash/Fluff.
1. In His Sleep

John Watson was very prone to nose bleeds. He was just one of those guys who, for no reason whatsoever, would suddenly just erupt in a wave of red, all down his face and chest. Ever since he was little, he used to laugh good-humouredly as his classmates stared aghast at his blood-soaked shirt whilst a teacher escorted him to the medical room, terrified that he might suddenly die of blood loss.

Of course, it was no big problem. John got used to it after a while, and the frequency of such nosebleeds died down after he was about fifteen. He only got the occasional one or two when it was particularly cold.

This winter in 221B was painfully freezing. Even with the thermostat set to its highest setting (without risking combustion), John huddled into his duvet at night, glaring at the strip of window he could see past his curtains, which was frozen shut with a thick layer of ice.

Finally, he managed to fall asleep, praying that he wouldn't wake up with frostbite.

Sherlock Holmes had only ever had nosebleeds when he had been punched in the face by suspects. Even then, they were minimal. He very rarely got spontaneous nosebleeds. Also, Sherlock Holmes knew nothing about John's affliction.

Which was why, at seven in the morning, Sherlock was hurrying up the stairs to John's room, to tell him about the new type of acid he'd developed that burned titanium under special circumstances, involving heat (it had been an accidental discovery, due to the sub-par temperatures in the kitchen) and pressure.

"John!" he cried out. "Look what I've made! Look what I-"

He swung open the door and the breath was knocked out of him. His first reaction was simply: _"No!"_

For John was splayed across his bed, arm hanging limply over one side, and he was covered in blood.

His face was streaky and covered, his hair was soaked, his pyjama t-shirt was saturated, and his pillow was completely red.

"No, John! No!" Sherlock's heart rate rocketed, his vision went blurry and his head span. _Not John. Please, not John._ Someone had attacked John in his sleep. Worse still, someone had snuck in, right under Sherlock's nose. How could he have been so _stupid? _What sort of friend was he, that he just let murderers enter his home and- and—

"Oh, god, John!" Sherlock gasped out, his knees trembling. He had seen more gruesome murders than he had had hot dinners, but for some reason, the sight of John, mauled in his own bed, was making Sherlock feel nauseous. His breaths were shallow, and part of his brain catalogued that he was having a panic attack.

He pushed himself away from the wall where he had slumped, unable to hold himself up, and fell next to John on the bed, feeling wet, hot blood soak into his own shirt. He did not care.

"Oh, please, no, John!" he cried out, grasping his friend's face and pulling around so he could look at him. He was still warm- a fresh murder then. "No, please! Please!"

He shook John roughly, all rational thought leaving him, and started to hyperventilate. "John!"

Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open, and in the blink of an eye, Sherlock was flat on his back on the floor, having emitted an "oof!", a hand around his neck, and he was being choked.

"J-jo-hon!" he rasped. His mind was in conflict, he didn't know what to do. In one instance, he wanted to sing, because the heavy body pinning him down was _alive. _In another, his instincts wanted to fight, to get the enemy off him.

"Sh-sherlock?"

John blinked, shaking himself out of the edges of sleep. "What on earth is going on?"

Sherlock's fingers wound around John's blood covered ones, and prised them off his throat.

"Oh, sorry," John apologised, sitting up, and leaning against his chest of drawers. "Old habits."

At this point, he noticed he was entirely marinated in his own blood. "Christ! Bloody hell!"

Sherlock coughed, and stared at John. "Is this supposed to be funny?"

"Funny? What? Oh, no, sorry. Sometimes I get nosebleeds," John admitted sheepishly. "Why?"

Sherlock cleared his throat again, his voice not quite back to normal. His heart was still pounding frantically. "Ahem. It was rather...shocking, when I came in."

John blinked, and then grinned. "Did I look like a crime scene?"

Sherlock indicated at the bed, and John craned his neck from his position on the floor to see the decimated and drenched bedcovers.

"Ah. I see. Um, yes, sorry about that. No, it's just when it gets cold, I'm prone to nosebleeds."

"That wasn't a nosebleed, John, that was a veritable waterfall."

"Yes. Sorry. Didn't mean to alarm you. You've got some on you too. I'm sorry."

Sherlock worried his lip between his teeth, trying hard to eradicate the image of his friend butchered out of his mind, whilst avoiding John's gaze.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked gently, pressing a hand to Sherlock's arm. A splodgy red handprint was left behind.

"Yes. Of course. I should have...known. Realised- of course it wasn't... Yes. If you'll excuse me," Sherlock stood, and brushed himself down. He could feel blood drying around his neck from where John's hands had tried to strangle him.

He descended John's staircase on wobbly legs, wondering when it was that John Watson had wheedled himself into Sherlock's brain so thoroughly...

**Hello! Nice to meet you, fandom! I decided to write something of my own! This is just a little thing that I knocked out in two minutes. I hope you liked it!**

**Please review!**

**X**


	2. Hostage

John glared at the huge, burly man who was forcing him into a chair, but didn't say anything. The guy had a gun held casually in loose fingers, and the safety was off, even though the man was securing ropes around John's body.

"Wondering if you're boyfriend will actually turn up?" he taunted, and John heard his friend on the other side of the room snigger. "Scared he won't be bothered to save his little whore?"

John refrained from rolling his eyes, and just stared straight across to the opposite wall. The room was bare, whitewashed walls, no windows, and no furniture. His chair was wooden, and rather uncomfortable, and the rope was the industrial stuff used on ships, all weaved wires that cut into his wrists. John was totally immobilised on his chair, the wire rope wrapped around his forearms and shins, attaching them to the armrests and chair legs, and around his body several times, so he couldn't move an inch. That didn't stop him from forming a plan in his mind. All he needed was a knife, and just a few precious minutes alone. From what he gathered, he would neither be alone nor would he have the opportunity to nick a knife from either of these imbeciles.

"I don't know what the fuss was about," the other guy said. He was taller, but skinnier, and looked younger too. "It was no bother getting him."

"Clearly his reputation is more impressive than reality," Muscles said with a grin, and grasped John by the chin. John jerked away, but remained silent.

Tall crouched down in front of John, and gave a toothy grin. John simply stared back. "Maybe this will give Holmes a hint. Stay away, or his boyfriend gets the shit beaten out of him."

John couldn't help raise an eyebrow. He had a black eye forming from the initial struggle when the two men came at him in a dark alley way, and he had a few bruised ribs, but otherwise he was perfectly fine. Tall didn't like John's expression, and punched him in the stomach. John heaved, and gasped for breath, surprised that such a wiry little guy could deliver a blow like that, but was not too harmed.

He looked back up at Tall, who was staring at John in confusion, which was when John felt a hot trickle of liquid falling over his lips.

_Oh wonderful, _John almost groaned out loud. He hadn't had a nosebleed in months, why now?

"What the fuck did you do to him, Rick?" Muscles said in alarm, shoving Tall out of the way to inspect John's face.

"I didn't touch his head! He's just a weirdo!" Tall, _Rick, _replied haughtily. John felt more blood flow over his face, and it started dripping off his chin onto his lap. Soon the dripping turned into a full on flow, developing slowly into a cascade of very dark red blood, staining the front of his shirt quickly, and making John look like a stabbing victim.

Tall and Muscles backed away slowly, as John's nosebleed progressed from _just-a-nosebleed _to _I-look-like-a-crime-scene._

"Jesus fuck, Rick! He's bleeding out!" Muscles exclaimed. John could feel his pulse heavy in the bridge of his nose, and was gasping through his mouth as blood poured forth like water from a tap.

"Have you got any tissues?" Rick asked, and Muscles gave him this look that gave the impression he was about to smack his colleague around the head. "All right, all right! No tissues. We can't have him dead, or looking like he's about to die! That scuppers everything!"

Muscles hesitated. "Should we just... scarper?"

Rick bit his lip, considering it. "This wasn't part of the plan. Holmes will do his nut if he sees him like this."

Muscles fidgeted. "Well, I'm out of here. If he continues like this for long, he'll pass out."

"Nathan! For fuck's sake, calm down! He's not going to die! He just looks...roughed up a bit. Maybe we can use this to our advantage."

Nathan and Rick moved to one corner behind John, and John felt himself going woozy. The blood was thick and hot in his nose, and he sneezed. Blood splattered everywhere. He himself was completely covered, even the parts of him that had otherwise been safe from the flow of blood. Now, he was speckled in red all across his torso and his legs.

He turned his head over to Rick and Nathan, who had pulled out his gun. Both looked horrified at John's appearance, and John decided to play it up a bit. He moaned and slumped to one side.

"Rick, if he's dead, we're gonna get killed," he heard Nathan say. He kept his eyes closed and pretended to have fainted.

"Don't be ridiculous," Rick muttered. "He's not dead. Boss said he was dispensable, anyway. It's Holmes we don't want to harm."

"No, Boss said harming Watson was fine, but killing him wasn't allowed. Boss-"

"Moran can say whatever the fuck he likes," Rick spat, and John's spine stiffened at the mention of Sebastian Moran's name. He should have known this would link up to Moriarty. "He doesn't _own _me. This is _my _operation, my money, and my information. If Watson decides to drop dead, I don't give a fuck. Moran can suck my dick."

"I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate you saying that."

John's eyes snapped open as he heard Sherlock's voice. The detective was standing in the doorway, panting slightly and with a thin sheen of sweat across his face like he had been running, a gun held aloft, glaring at the two men in the corner. He must have moved silently, as neither John nor his kidnappers had heard him open the door.

John locked eyes with Sherlock, and upon seeing his flatmate's bloodied state, the detective's eyes narrowed, and his penetrating gaze fell upon Rick and Nathan. Nathan had his own gun held up, but John could tell who was the more experienced marksman- Nathan's hand was trembling. John's neck protested at being twisted around to look at his assailants, so he gave up, and looked at Sherlock instead.

"So, Rick Hounslow, guilty of thievery, blackmail and drug trafficking. I would say it is nice to meet you, as you have provided _such _a fascinating line of work for me these last few weeks, but unfortunately that sentiment wouldn't be quite true," Sherlock spoke delicately. He dug into his coat pocket and withdrew a pen knife. He sauntered over to John, and placed the knife in John's left hand. John wasted no time in struggling to get himself free from his bonds. Sherlock, meanwhile, continued talking to the criminals, not once dropping the Browning even an inch.

"I should have known you would be in league with Moran. It had his..._style _all over it. And of course," Sherlock seemed to smile to himself, "as soon as I was involved, Moriarty came out to play."

Rick scoffed. "Hardly! We never even saw his face!"

John freed his left hand, and got to work on his right. He heard a second gun's safety being clicked open from behind him.

"Two on one, Holmes," Rick spoke. "Give us the CD, and I won't shoot your fucktoy in the head."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, I don't think you'll be doing that." He took another step, and John jumped as he heard a gunshot, and a bullet hole emerged under his seat, between his feet. It appeared Rick had surprisingly good aim.

"You don't think so?" Rick spoke, and his voice was slightly higher than usual. "Put that gun down, and step away, and leave the CD here. Then both of you can go."

Sherlock wasn't laughing anymore. John hurriedly cut his right hand free, and started hacking at the wires bound around his chest.

"The police are on their way," Sherlock said in a low voice. "There are helicopters stationed nearby. You'll never escape. Give in now. You. Have. Lost."

There was another shot, and John jerked around to see, as he heard Sherlock cry out. It seemed Nathan had gotten trigger happy, but had only grazed Sherlock's left arm. Sherlock clutched it, but managed to collect himself together. John's gun was raised up once more.

"Don't make me force you," Sherlock spoke, in a deadly tone.

John wiped at his nose frantically, but that only resulted in his hands getting coated in blood, making it hard to grip the knife.

"Holmes, I don't think you quite understand," Rick said. "I have the protection of Moriarty on my side. He values the information on that CD very much! I can kill you right now, if I wanted to, I'd never be caught."

John had freed his torso, and bent down to cut the rope around his legs. His bent position meant more blood flowed to his head, and it started pumping out of him more liberally.

"Mr Hounslow, you're not really in a position to negotiate," Sherlock said calmly, and John almost laughed out loud. Not in a position to negotiate? It was two on one, they both had guns trained on Sherlock, John was in a bloody state, quite literally, and Moriarty had once again ruined his plans for a Friday night date.

"Nathan, the guy needs some incentive. Go shoot Watson now," Rick said casually. Two shots were fired, and John heard Nathan give a scream of pain, and a dull thud as he hit the floor.

"And I'm telling _you, _Mr Hounslow, that I've had enough with your messing around," Sherlock said maliciously. John could hear Nathan whimpering. Finally, his legs were free, and he jumped up and turned to survey the damage of the room.

Sherlock had shot Nathan in both legs, just below the kneecaps. John winced as Nathan cried loudly in pain, blood pooling around him. Rick looked aghast, and held his own weapon up. John grasped the knife in his hand tightly, knowing it would be no good in a gun fight, but it helped ground him.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, not breaking his gaze with Rick, and keeping his gun hand steady.

"Yeah, 'course," John said thickly through the blood. "Never better."

"Excellent," Sherlock muttered. "Mr Hounslow, it's time to give up."

Rick sneered, and John recognised the signs of what he was about to do. He clutched Sherlock by the shoulders of his coat and pulled him down to the floor as Rick fired three shots.

They both fell to the floor, and Sherlock jarred his head on the ground. John grasped a hand around Sherlock's which held the gun, and snatched it off him. In less than a second, Rick had joined Nathan on the floor, a similar wound in his left thigh.

At that moment, John heard the sounds of the police outside the room.

"Finally," Sherlock groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head. Unfortunately he rubbed with the hand that John had snatched the gun out of, so it was covered in John's blood, and was transferred onto Sherlock's face. He also had John's blood on his coat, and had landed half on top of John, so there were more wet dark stains on his shirt.

"Whoopsie," John muttered, also sitting up, and giggled slightly. The sick feeling of adrenaline was coursing through him. They hadn't been in a gun fight for quite a while; he had forgotten what it was like. "Let me see your arm."

"Inconsequential," Sherlock muttered.

The door banged open, and Lestrade and some officers piled into the room.

Lestrade blinked owlishly at the scene. "What in the blazes happened here? John! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine," John said, wiping his nose on his ruined sleeve. The blood still was pouring. "Just a nosebleed."

"You shot them?" Lestrade asked outraged once he saw the two criminals, as Rick and Nathan groaned loudly when the officers went to put handcuffs on them.

"Out of self defence," Sherlock said coolly. "They were going to kill John whilst he was incapacitated." Sherlock nodded to the chair with the discarded torn ropes on the floor.

Lestrade sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "God, what a mess."

Sherlock stood, swaying slightly at the head rush, and because of the brilliant red bump that had formed on his forehead. "John, I'm sure the paramedics will want to look you over. You did bring an ambulance, I pray, Lestrade?"

"Of course I did. It's you."

"Good," Sherlock smiled, dusting himself down, then grasping John by the arms and pulling him up too.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. It's just the nosebleed, it makes everything look worse."

Sherlock's smile stiffened slightly, and John remembered his friend's strange reaction to witnessing John's first nosebleed. "No, John, I must insist."

He tugged John out of the room, leaving Lestrade to deal with the bloody room and its two bleeding criminal occupants.

Indeed, outside of the small house John had been held in, was an ambulance, and a couple of paramedics with a tray of Starbucks between them.

"Can I least look at your arm?" John asked, as the paramedics gawped at John's blood-soaked appearance, then jumped up, getting tissues and a change of clothes. Sherlock sighed, and shook off his coat. John saw a rip in his left sleeve near his bicep, and frowned. Such a lovely coat, ripped!

There was a small scratch, and Sherlock's suit and shirt were also ripped. He allowed John, with his bloodied hands, examine the wound.

"You're right, nothing dangerous," John conceded, and Sherlock nodded. He took the tissues from the paramedic, and started wiping John's face.

"I can do it," John protested, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Sorry I didn't get here earlier," Sherlock said, and John was startled by the apology. Sherlock never, ever, apologised. "There was a traffic jam by Embankment, and so I ran the whole way."

John laughed, but allowed Sherlock to wipe at his chin. The blood flow was decreasing slightly. "You nutter," John said, imagining Sherlock sprinting through all the cars and taxis and buses like some sort of demented overgrown bat.

"You gave me quite a scare, John," Sherlock said sternly. "You looked like you had been butchered."

John said nothing, remembering how, when Sherlock had entered the room, he had been feigning unconsciousness. There had been enough experiences to know that Sherlock cared for him very much. Shooting poor Nathan just because he had made a move towards John was _more _than enough evidence. The man would be lucky if he could walk properly again.

At that moment, a paramedic came over with a flannel jacket and trousers for John to change into.

"What about his nosebleed?" Sherlock asked. "Do you have any blood thickeners to stop it?"

"No, sorry," she said, but held up her first aid case. "Use whatever gauze you like, doctor."

John was getting concerned that he wasn't worried about the fact the paramedics knew who he was, after all the encounters he had had with them. Holding tissues to his nose, he opened the first aid case and looked inside it with one hand.

"Sherlock, I need you to make sure Lestrade doesn't get any photographs," John sighed, dropping the bloodied tissue, and pulling out a tampon. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he snorted, then started chuckling.

"Something you need to tell me, John?" he sniggered, and John lobbed his bloody tissue at him. He unwrapped the tampon, and pressed it to his nose (not _up _his nose, he wasn't that desperate yet).

"These work better than tissues," John said. "Better absorption rate."

Soon enough, there was no more free flowing blood. John held the tampon to his face, whilst he inspected the paramedics as they bandaged up Sherlock's arm. He even got a blanket for Sherlock to protect him from the cold wind when he had to take his shirt off.

Soon, Lestrade came out, with the two criminals on stretchers, and a brigade of officers.

"Oh, bloody hell!" cried out the paramedic who had given John the first aid case, as she ran off to help with the bullet-riddled criminals.

"Quite literally," John sniggered, as much as he could with a sanitary product under his nose.

Both he and Sherlock tried not to giggle too much, as they saw Rick and Nathan piled, none too gently, into the back of the ambulance, groaning and swearing all the way.

"I'm not even going to ask," Lestrade mumbled, as he made his way over to the topless detective and John, whose blood was drying on his clothes to form a brown colour. "You got shot too?" he asked in concern, indicating Sherlock's arm.

"Scratched," Sherlock dismissed. "Luckily, their aim was pathetic."

Lestrade shook his head. "And what in God's name happened to you?" he asked John. "You look like a Beachy Head victim!"

John cleared his throat. "I'm prone to nosebleeds."

Lestrade just gawped, and then shook himself, as if trying to expel water from his ears. "Just- just- what? I can't even deal with this. You two are a pair of hooligans."

John quickly changed into his towel outfit in the second ambulance, but insisted that he could go home by himself. Sherlock had salvaged his shirt, and was fingering the rip in his arm with distaste. John thought he heard the words "_Silk!" _and "_Mummy" _and "_Christmas present!" _being mumbled by the detective. The suit jacket was in need of some fine tailoring, however, and so was the coat. Sherlock's blood had formed a patch of red around all three rips.

They declined Lestrade's offer to take them home, and caught a cab. John kept getting furtive looks, for his face was a dirty red hue from all the blood, but soon enough, they were back home.

"What about Moran, then?" John asked, going to make them some tea before he had a shower. His nosebleed had stopped completely by now, not even a trickle.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be seeing more of him soon," Sherlock said, reclining back into his chair, an excited glint in his eyes. John felt a swoop in his stomach too. Sebastian Moran, all strong jawbones and sweeping blonde hair and six feet four stature, was a whirlwind of activity. If he really was involved in the Hounslow drug situation, there was going to be a lot of adventure in the next few weeks, as Sebastian Moran lacked the subtlety (John called it _insanity)_ that Moriarty possessed, and preferred guns, punch-ups and high speed car chases.

John's eye caught a CD on the kitchen counter, and picked it up. He was certain that this was the CD that contained the information Rick Hounslow had so desperately wanted.

"I thought you had this with you!" John asked, returning to the living room, and brandishing it in front of Sherlock.

"No, unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot it," Sherlock said calmly. "Of course, he didn't know that."

"So what would you have done if he had demanded it of you? What if he had tortured you for it?" John asked angrily. "He would have killed you for this, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyed John carefully. "I was under the impression that he _had_ the only thing that would have made me give it to him. By making him think I had it on me, he would have been less willing to kill you. It gave him leverage."

John blinked, and dropped the CD on the coffee table. Suddenly Sherlock's gaze made him feel uncomfortable. He didn't like being a liability. Sherlock stared at him carefully.

"If you were dead, I might have been inclined to break the CD. He would return you, and I would give him the CD. Don't you see John? Of course, if you were dead, Rick Hounslow would be more than limping for the rest of his life."

Sherlock picked up his phone, and pressed a few buttons, ignoring John, who was blinking, and feeling rather flattered. The redness on his skin was no longer from a nosebleed.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said distastefully into the phone. "I have your CD, and Hounslow is in the custody of the police. I suggest you send a minion to collect it... All right then, _employee, _but that hardly matters right n- Mycroft, you're missing the point... No, Mycroft, I don't want you to come personally... I don't care how old you are, Mycroft, you eat cake every day anyway... Take Lestrade, God knows the man is pining enou- You know perfectly well what I mean, Mycroft! He looks like a lost puppy when you-"

John snatched the phone out of Sherlock's grip and spoke into the receiver. "Happy birthday Mycroft, now if you don't mind, Sherlock needs to go clean himself up. We'll see you tonight at your house. I'll make sure he wears something nice."

John hung up, and returned to the kitchen to brew his tea, before taking it to the bathroom to wash away the blood from his body, whilst Sherlock spluttered indignantly.

**Happy Birthday, Mycroft Holmes! :]**

**I hope you liked this. I wrote it in half an hour, and only proof-read it once. 3.5k words of total nonsense. **

**I would like to thank everybody who reviewed.**

**GallifreyenCultOfSkaro- thank you again for 1) asking for more and 2) giving some suggestions. It helped my muse. I'm writing the next part which will have some Moriarty and Moran in it, and of course, more blood. I'm also desperately tempted to start writing some slashy stuff, but we'll see where that goes. I mean, would Sherlock stop if John got an epic nosebleed in the middle of sex? ;)**

**Thank you all again! Please review! Review like it's the portal to the Sherlock universe, and you can live in 221C and spy on your neighbours whilst they are having wild, kinky sex. (I mean John and Sherlock, not Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterji!)**

**Over and out, my lovelies!**

**X**


	3. Most Inconvenient

**I'm just going to post it, instead of worrying about it.**

**Warning: Slash, slightly graphic, but compared to some of the stuff in this fandom, it's not particularly explicit.**

"Oh, God! Oh! Oh, God!"

"Well, I prefer to be called _Sherlock."_

"Shut u-aahggnn!"

"Are you usually this vocal?"

"Haa-aaah, oh, _oooh_, Go-od!"

Sherlock chuckled and hitched his legs up higher around John's waist. John was frantic, clutching Sherlock by the shoulders as he thrust vigorously, grunting and moaning obscenely. Whoever insinuated that John Watson was a _vanilla-kinda-guy _obviously hadn't fucked the man yet. Sherlock was rather pleasantly surprised, and had known this was going to be fun (_so much fun) _the moment John had thrown him against the wall and kissed him. To be honest, Sherlock didn't know why they hadn't started doing this sooner.

John grasped Sherlock's right thigh in his sweaty palm, breaking his rhythm for a second, and pulled it up over his shoulder, his fingers digging in but Sherlock didn't mind, and bending the taller man into an even more impossible shape.

"Fu-u-uck," John panted out, and Sherlock bit his lip as his prostate was hit in a completely different way by John's cock. "N-no, don't stifle yourself. I want to hear it all."

John put his left hand to Sherlock's mouth and pulled his lower lip out from beneath his teeth.

"We can't all be vociferous sex machines like you, John," Sherlock teased, rolling his hips up, and causing John to stumble slightly. He was rewarded by a particularly sharp thrust, and gasped.

It had been a while since Sherlock had had sex (well over fifteen years), and he had been rather nervous when John had pushed him resolutely onto his bed and rummaged around his drawer for the lube, but, and as he had been observing when it came to John Watson, he had felt comfortable with displaying copious amounts of flesh to his flatmate and friend. More comfortable than he had been with his last sexual encounter, whom he was sure had been his drug dealer at the time, so it was understandable that he may want to leave his sexual side locked in a cupboard and not touched.

"I've wanted this for so long," John had told him, when he had carefully pulled Sherlock's shirt off of him, and Sherlock had realised that he too did want this.

So that was how he found himself, flat on his back, legs wrapped tightly around a very compact and sturdy body, being fucked into the mattress. The bed kept banging into the wall, and Sherlock was glad they were doing it in John's bedroom on the upper floor, as he was sure a poor dear like Mrs Hudson was far too old to be hearing the noises John was making.

"Are you close?" John gasped, his left hand coming down to wrap itself around Sherlock's prick, and Sherlock's vision went white.

"Almost!" he replied, and lifted his arms to the headboard so he could use it as leverage and thrust up onto John. The bed started banging and creaking even more, the springs working like mad, and Sherlock knew he would definitely feel it in the morning.

"Oh fuck! Oh, fuck Sherlock!" John cried out, and Sherlock watched his face keenly, wanting to watch him come.

Sherlock was sure he was imagining it, therefore, when a thin trickle of red dripped out of John's nose and landed on Sherlock's chest. He blinked, losing his rhythm, and peered up into John's face.

"J-john!"

"Oh, Sherlock!"

"John! Y-you-"

"God, yes Sherlock!"

"No, John! You- you're bleeding."

"What?"

John ground to a halt, and both of them groaned in frustration as the glorious friction between them fizzled out.

"You- you're having a nosebleed," Sherlock panted, letting go of the headboard and wiping his thumb across John's upper lip. It came away with red.

"Oh, for the love of fucking God!" John moaned, and made to pull out of Sherlock.

"No! I swear, John Watson, if you stop now, I will murder you!" Sherlock panicked, shrilly, clasping his legs tighter around John so as not to let him withdraw.

John blinked. "But- but it will get all over you."

"I don't care."

"Really? We'll get filthy."

"John!"

"All right, all right! Remind me to go sheet shopping tomorrow. Oh, and to pick up some milk and washing up liquid, we've run out. And also some fabric softener."

"John, I do not appreciate my lovers thinking about grocery shopping whilst _still inside me! _Now move!"

John picked up the pace once again. His nosebleed was progressing, and running freely down his face. He let go of Sherlock's hip to pinch the bridge of his nose, but, to his credit, did not slow down. Sherlock felt himself spasm, his thigh muscles tensing, and continued meeting John's thrusts.

"Nguh," John grunted thickly, his efforts to stem the blood flow failing, as a wave of red poured out from both nostrils, coating his chin, and dripping down onto Sherlock's chest. The dripping increased until it was pouring steadily downwards, pooling on Sherlock's sternum before trickling down in rivulets and tributaries down Sherlock's ribs, staining pale white skin.

Sherlock was getting drenched very quickly, and it was running down his stomach, and up to his throat, before spilling down the side of his body. John's face looked like he'd just been gorging on human flesh, and his expression conceded the same scenario. He looked hungry, as blood pumped from his nostrils, but his eyes remained glued to Sherlock's face. He gasped, flecks of blood being propelled from his breath, and spattered across Sherlock's forehead and jaw, which caused John to groan even more. His grip on Sherlock's right hip tightened to the point where it hurt. He pushed at Sherlock's thigh so that he had to rotate it round, forcing his legs to widen, allowing John more space to move.

"Faster!" Sherlock breathed, feeling his first orgasm in far too long building up inside him.

John complied, but soon found he had to let go of his nose, and grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, pulling harshly so as to force Sherlock to meet his pace. He left a sticky red handprint across Sherlock's trapezius, the red thumb resting against his sharp collar bone. John dragged his bloody hands down Sherlock's chest, smearing blood everywhere, pushing it off the sides so it swilled on the sheets either side of his body, and painting Sherlock's skin. It was dark- darker than blood from wounds on hands or knees, where both were prone to getting injured. John was entranced by his own blood coating the man beneath him, whose head was thrown back in ultimate pleasure.

"Fug," John muttered, his nose congested and thick, distorting his words, "You're so fugging gorgeous. I lub you."

Sherlock blinked and swallowed, his breathing laboured and his vision dotted with spots. A terrible, burning pleasure was shooting through his limbs, smouldering in his abdomen, and he knew what was about to happen.

"John! O-oh! John!"

He came, his nerves were on fire, and he was boiling hot, covered in sweat and come and John's blood which was pooled over his frantic heart.

He heard John cry out, and wrenched his eyelids open to watch his lover shudder and yell loudly as he too came. He collapsed barely keeping his weight of Sherlock, and buried his face against Sherlock's neck.

"Holy crap," Sherlock muttered, feeling John's chest slide against his own from all the blood and come and sweat. "That was...John..."

"I know. I was dere," John mumbled thickly. "Sorry aboud duh blood. What a fucking pain in the arse."

Sherlock paused. "Are you trying to be funny?"

John started. "Oh, God! Sorry!" He pulled out gently, and they both groaned. Sherlock felt sore and used. It was brilliant. He rolled over to look at John, who was still panting, and pinching his nose again.

"You're going to suffer blood loss if you're not careful," Sherlock told him, propping himself up on one elbow, but his comment was waved away by John's spare hand. Sherlock reached out and ran a finger through the blood on John's chest. He drew his initials in the mess, and rather liked the way they looked across John's skin amongst all the red liquid.

They looked like some sort of torture scene. Two naked bodies sacrificed on a bed in a kind of lusty sex ritual, covered in blood and semen. Sherlock liked that idea a little more than he should. What a fantastic way to die.

"I dink its stobbing," John mumbled, his breathing returning to normal. "Whad a dime to hab a nosebleed!"

Sherlock smiled, and leant back on the covers, just feeling how his body felt. Sated, and exhausted. He had just had the best sex of his life (although the sex he had previously participated in had always been disappointing, unnecessary and somewhat painful, so his experiences were limited) with a man he was dangerously close to falling in love with, and the tips of his fingers were prickling. He stretched his right hand across to find John and held on to whatever flesh he could find. The prickling stopped.

"Did you really mean it?" Sherlock asked, after a long time. He thought John had perhaps fallen asleep, but the faster than normal breathing he heard from beside him told him otherwise.

"Which bit?" John asked, and Sherlock could tell his nose had cleared of blood.

"Do you love me?" Sherlock clarified, rolling over again to peer into John's face. He wanted to be sure.

"Yes," John said decisively. "Of course."

"Nobody has ever loved me before," Sherlock admitted. John snorted, and Sherlock was pleased that he wasn't showered with any droplets of blood.

"Don't be ridiculous. Everybody loves you. You're you!"

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that made sense. "How long?"

"Oh, I've wanted to fuck you for ages," John said casually. "I've loved you for a long time too."

He didn't seem expectant of any sort of reciprocation, which Sherlock was relieved about. He wasn't quite ready.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's lips, and tasted a harsh metallic flavour. He licked at it, tasting John's blood.

"Mm, come on. Let's go have a shower," John mumbled through the kiss. "You look like a Sunday roast before it's put in the oven."

"Together?" Sherlock asked.

"We do everything else together! Why not?" John said exasperatedly. "Besides, I want to wash your hair. Hair like that doesn't just occur naturally. I want to see what magic spell you use."

Sherlock smiled bemusedly, and heaved himself up onto a sitting position, then immediately slumped back down.

"No. Nope. I can't. Sorry. I can't move," he grumbled, pushing his head into the pillow. "You've broken me."

A hot hand pressed into his ribs. "Broken you? Oh, my dear Sherlock. _That _broke you? You're in for a nasty surprise."

**Ahem.**

**I just wrote 1.8k words of slash. That involved a lot of blood. **

**I have never written anything steamier than a kiss before, and I've certainly not published any of it, so you'll have to tolerate my beginner's style of slash writing.**

**For example, the fact that the scene you just witnessed was completely unrealistic. We all know (well, I don't know from personal experience, but I've read it) that first time sex between couples is awkward, uncomfortable and it takes time to get to know each other. I cannot offer you advice on gay sex because 1) I am a woman and 2) I am a virgin with no sexual experience to refer to.**

**So yes. Please take this with a pinch of salt, and see it as it is: a story about a guy who gets nosebleeds.**

**Although this has been brilliant fun! I've been feeling a bit shitty. I was trying to meet up with my best friend the other day so we could go to the cinema, but apparently she's busy all week. Yesterday I texted her to ask if she was available that night, because my sister and I were going to the cinema anyway, but she told me she couldn't come because she was "busy". I thought no more of it. She's my best friend. Then, as my sister and I are walking into the cinema, out came my best friend, with a bunch of other people, including the parents she claimed were "too busy to take her to the cinema". Apparently her idea of "busy" is out doing what **_**we **_**wanted to do, but with other people, and lying to me about it.**

**God, look at my ranting! Basically, imagine this: Sherlock asks John to go with him to a restaurant. John says he's too busy doing other stuff. Sherlock decides to go by himself. He walks into the restaurant, and John is leaving **_**the same restaurant, **_**having just had a meal with Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson. And Mycroft. And James Moriarty himself. They're having a party. John even **_**dressed up for the occasion. **_**John pretends nothing is wrong and gives Sherlock a huge smile as he passes him in the restaurant.**

**I feel a little crushed. I don't have many friends, (I doubt I was the only one who thought "Yeah, so what?" when Sherlock said "I don't have friends, I only have one" in Hounds) but my best friend is...how do I put it? Very important to me.**

**Okay, I'm going to shut the fuck up now, and go cry somewhere. Alone.**

**Hope you enjoyed!**

**X**


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